Red vs Blue: Remnant
by Bushtuckapenguin
Summary: Epsilon missing? Director free? Omega loose? They want something bigger than Alpha. They want Tex but she's MIA since Blood Gulch. Church escaped limbo once, will he risk it again for the woman he loved and lost? Can the same retards save the human race?
1. Cooee Can Ya Come!

**Red vs Blue Remnant  
**_Cooee! Can Ya Come!_

The military gave like an older brother. The Warthog promised arrived two weeks late, a condition optimistically described as terminally ill and probably cost less than the packaging. It was held together by faith and tetanus but someone was giving it a good ol spit shine.

Actually he was napping in the shade beneath the carriage and while it had taken many years to perfect a snore that sounded like a faint metallic buffing the owner felt they werent spent in vain. Unfortunately in recent weeks his superior had picked up on his unsung talent and the radio beating out the _Top of the Pops _rather than the military chatter it was supposed to meant he never heard him coming.

"Grif!"

Metal boomed on metal as heavy armoured boots crashed down on the bonnet of the Warthog. He was rewarded with the sound of bone on metal as Grif squawked and jerked upright. He lay dazed, wondering if he could fake unconsciousness but the metal greaves kicked at his belly and kept kicking until he rolled out from under the chassis.

The face that appeared, aside from being greasy and embossed with _Property of UNSC,_ was chubby, covered in licks of messy black hair with dark Islander features. He had been conscripted to the Red Army more than five years prior and fought like a lion to get out ever since... Well not quite lion, like a housecat certainly. You may have originally bought it for company and to keep the mice down but it had done as little as possible in the worst possible way for so long you no longer expected anything except to turn up at meal times and take up the best place on the couch.

However what Grif thought of as an easy road to a dishonourable discharge hit a roadblock when Freelancer Command discovered an unexpected niche- efficiency officer, aka the Red Army's booby prize. CO's not pulling their weight soon discovered what hard work really meant after an unexpected transferral doubled the time, effort, sanitation and provisions for even the smallest of tasks and picked up their act in a hurry.

Grif lived the easy life for almost a year, and then he met Sarge.

Sarge.

They said his name was lost in the bureaucratic paper wastelands of Command so long ago even he'd forgotten it and the concussions of an Orbital Drop Soldier hadn't helped. Sarge was far too stubborn to let mere laziness, incompetence and body odour that caused lichen migrate to less hostile environments stand in the way of a flawless training record.

"Nancypants!" Sarge bawled. "When I order you to wash the jeep I expect the sweet serenade of rubbing and polishing, not some karaoke idol!

"I think I'm going to need something stronger," Grif whined, brushing off a paunch that while fuller than most was nowhere near the lumbering obesity he had been training for his entire pre-military career. Sarge would've been unhappy to know that his relentless drilling was saving the orange soldier from a eulogy at thirty two.

He groped behind his head and pulled out a toothbrush. He also broke loose a chunk of mud bigger than his head. "Like maybe a scrubbing brush. Or a shovel. Or a tin of nitro-glycerine. And I want to requisition a new toothbrush. When you asked me to present it on parade this morning I hadn't realised you had this kind of chore in mind, but I'm not surprised."

"What!" Grif stood up as a jaw hard and square as an anvil stuck out. It and the bristling white scalp barely came to his chest but since Sarge's sense of personal space was on par with his sense of volume control it was still a reason to recoil and wipe his face. Where was his helmet when he needed it? "You know we're on a strict supply rationing scumbag! That toothbrush will last you another three months!"

The soldier looked at his toothbrush and shrugged. Hygiene wasnt his top priority but he could always wash it in the toilet and swap it with Simmons. Thatd teach him to pawn off menial duties. He slipped the toothbrush into the back of his pants for good measure.

"Why hasnt Donut come back yet, and why isn't Simmons here? Why can't he do this? Or Lopez. Why do we even have a robot!"

Sarge pumped his shotgun in answer. "They are on assignments vital to managing the Blue menace-"

"What, Caboose? He's practically doing the job for us! I heard him scream like, half an hour ago!"

"And I still wouldn't send you on assignment! I wouldn't trust a turdbucket like you to catch a fart in a bag! What makes you think I'd delegate to you missions so essential to our victory!"

* * *

"Hmmm! Hmm-hmm!" A cheery humming drifted through one of the Hive's many forums. The Hive was a massive military facility located three kilometres beneath the surface of the Sydney and in the aftermath of the Covenant War no one expected a city more famous for it's drag queens and budgie smugglers to turn into the UNSC's military hub.

Several figures crowded around the table on the central dais but the crooning came from the upper gallery.

A young man sat cross legged, looking longingly at the screen imbedded in the panel. More commonly used to display terrain or military manoeuvres, it flickered with infomercials peddling jewel encrusted Faberge eggs. His pale blonde hair which had taken him two intensive hours in front of a mirror to look _au naturale_ flipped as he bobbed along to the tune inside his head.

"_You can't hurry love! Noooo, youll just have to wait! Love dont come easy, its just a matter of give and ta_- Oh man! Dropped a stitch! He sighed and held up the darned heels of a pair of socks. He called down to the lower levels, Sir! Admiral Mauldin, I can have these back to you after lunch!

He touched his ear, the apparent source of the distraction. He nodded and pushed the knitting basket under the seat out of sight and left, still whistling as he worked.

* * *

In the startling green of Valhalla a patch of brown crouching in some bushes stood out. Although it was an imperative function for the Red's maintenance droid to fix and mend, Lopez lurked outside the wrecked Pelican with the reluctance of an ex-boyfriend contemplating the fifty meters his restraining order required.

The last he had seen Sheila was as she had launched into the clear blue skies of Blood Gulch. To find they had been transferred here was miraculous and intimidating, and although that was three months ago he still hadn't reintroduced himself.

He hesitated because there was something else too. Humans called it a crush, probably because she could crush his metaphorical heart like a tincan. Of course she could literally crush his heart too, and the rest of him. Not to mention the chin mounted rotary cannon and Anvil-II payload. Hell hath no fury like a thirtyfive ton woman scorned.

Since flowers and chocolates were in limited supply he decided to sweeten his chances the only way he knew how.

All Sheila's external sensors had been damaged in the crash so while Caboose was out scavenging Blue Base Lopez smuggled what he could from Sarge's careful catalogue of spare parts to restore her to her full and handsome glory. Then he could reveal himself, sweep her off her propulsion thrusters and... and...

From the bushes as Lopez cautiously raised his head to hear her muffled status reports, strange light splashed the cockpit window.

* * *

Several screens flickered as the internal circuit viewed Valhalla. Its viewer took pride in all assignments being performed with perfection and enthusiasm but after two months he slouched in his chair with nothing better to do than stare at the Blue Base. Sometimes he sighed wistfully as he remembered Blood Gulch, or the very specific part centred on the Blue Base medical bay.

Private First Class Dick Simmons spun in his chair and ran his hands through his loose cropped auburn brown hair.

They had been commended!

They had gotten medals!

They had been interviewed by that delicious little fox from PCS news!

They had been dumped back into the same rut they faced in Blood Gulch, seeing the same blunt faces, the same disturbingly animate food, the same stupid war that had ended for everyone except Sarge, and if the media was right never existed in the first place...

He slapped his cheek to massage feeling back into it and was relieved when his right foot didn't spasm. He would never _ever_ question Sarge's mechanical expertise but having a liscenced professional who's idea of surgical precision wasn't, "I said _on_ three, not _after_ three. Stop such a whinerbaby, it was a rubber mallet!" had its appeal.

The staff of Saint Brittany Hospital had done their best.

Like most home handymen, Sarge had constructed Simmons 2.0 out of any ol' stuff lying around. Vacuum nozzles, toaster coils and something that went _sploooort__!_ when an intern poked it. Sarge had done such a good job of keeping his second in command running that if anything was removed he went into cardiac arrest, and this included the dancing cola can that didn't appear to have any function except bouncing in time if someone clapped their hands.

Seeing as there was nothing they could do on the inside they settled for Pimp My Cyborg. The metal skull cap was replaced so his auburn brown hair could grow out and hid ears like lettuce leaves. They swapped the optic lens once swiped from Donut's camera for an artificial eye, the iris slightly redder than his natural brown, adapted to various lights and speeds. The slow motion replays were especially welcome when the women's tennis was on television.

Most importantly to him was the synthetic skin overlaying the strange hydraulics, wires and pistons that was his right arm. So what if the subcutaneous wires lit him up like spiderwebs on acid...

It was a shame that when he was finally human enough to get a date they had been sentenced to another limbo.

He could still hear Sarge's rambling the day they were discharged from hospital, before the open ears of the press and upper command.

"Line up men! It is our duty- nay, our privilege to join into the UNSC in our never ending battle against our eternal enemy! We regret that Grif only has one life to lie down in the name of the Red Army, but we give it gladly! Even if his teeth were shattered by a hail of bullets, or eyes boiled in his skull by super heated plasma, or torn limb from limb by raging Mongeeses, or eaten alive by carnivorous amazonian ants, or squashed by falling plumbing, or drowned in his own urine, or-"

The speech carried on for several minutes but Simmons saw the horror sink into their stoic faces. As Sarge warbled the Star Spangled Banner with brimming tears, one CO scrawled furiously over the official dispatch papers using another's back as a table. "Hurry, hurry! He's almost finished the second verse!"

"These orders are a decoy to distract the enemy, your official directive is on the back. We are keeping you in reserve as our trump card to, er, um, er, unleash! Yes, unleash a strategic time. We're counting on you!"

The maroon soldier sighed again.

Then there was that other radio signal, out there bouncing between decaying satellites like a fly on a windowpane. He'd been tracking it for weeks as a hobby but it was like chasing stink. Since he worked in close quarters with Grif he was well qualified.

The terminal blipped and he looked up from his fantasies of Blood Gulch Blue Base, yellow armour and a bottle of baby oil in surprise. It was a channel that he absently programmed into the computer but completely forgotten about and in the current political turmoil was better off forgotten. It was probably some desperate journalist grasping at straws. It wasnt like they were going to get a reply.

He regarded it curiously, his finger hovering over the button before idly accessing audio.

The blast of static and ricocheting bullets toppled him from his chair. "Yaah!"

_"Cooee!__ This is Foxtrot Five-Four, sending out a distress signa- Bugger! Bugger! Damn! Bloody hell! Bugger!- What? D'ya reckon? This ain't no bloody bludge so shut y'gob!-"_ Another explosion tore from the speakers filling the room with crumbling mortar and the splintering of wood.

_"He's tracking me!"_ The voice panted in a stage whisper. _"Like a fucking animal!"_

The shrill chorus of civilian screams joined the interference, almost drowning out the unmistakable report of a sniper rifle and the ragged gasp of pain.

* * *

On the other side of Valhalla a silhouette crouched in the dark. At his feet was the sprawled figure of the empty Spartan Mk 6 armour, and at his fingers was a box with a cycloptic light winking on and off. Normally the eerie blue light of the damaged Pelican discouraged Caboose but today he was moved by a higher power.

"There," he breathed, voice husky with excitement. "Now we can all be together again."

He looked to his audience for instruction. His audience consisted of the digital features of a Billy Idol fan who'd settled down to become a housewife, the box, the empty black suit of armour and an effigy made out the mop, slop bucket and dozens of toilet paper rolls scrawled in cyan textas.

"Are you ready Church?" Caboose asked the blinking box, grinning like an overmedicated mental patient. It worried Sheila and she wondered if it spoke back to him. It went with him everywhere like a little pet rock, cooing and petting it. It was sad watching him press Twinkies into the grill. One day they had both arrived covered in soapsuds.

And he still wouldnt accept it was empty.

"Almost ready Church! I have all your favourite things ready for your Welcome Back party! I even sent invitations to the Reds and I bet they'll bring presents! I told them you wanted Chocolate Nutter Butter Icecream, and those little cakes with the cream in the middle and the Green Power Ranger with the screaming jet blaster so you can play with me!" He paused in his excited shuffling between consoles sulkily, "If Tucker wants to play he has to be the Pink Power Ranger cos Im the Blue one! How much more, Sheila?"

He went over to a keyboard. He'd balanced a plate with cookies and orange juice, arranging them into a smiley face while singing _It's a Small World After All_ in croaky _dah's_ and _dee's_. Because it was Caboose he only got as far as the first seven notes before repeating it.

"Solar absorption has reached ninety seven percent capacity with a zero point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero four five percent chance of success. Caboose, you have a better chance of attending Harvard than you do reviving an AI you think is in this storage unit. It's..." she started but then trailed off as he turned baby blue eyes and a thousand watt smile towards her.

If brain power were heat, the blue couldn't compete with a birthday candle, but if it were hope he burned with the brilliance of suns. As an AI that dealt with facts and certainties it wasnt something she understood but what was the light of a human heart without hope?

He arrived back in Valhalla by Pelican, several attempts and several seizures later he restored her backup systems. In the dim interior of her cockpit with the ghostly pink light her avatar floating over his upturned face, he clutched the storage unit preciously to his chest."I want you to bring Church back!"

Puzzled but recognising an AI storage unit immediately, she replied, "An electric potential greater than seventy five megavolts is required to restore an AI to full function. My backup generators are at insufficient levels but if alternative energy means are available I do have the capacity for single surge output."

It was enough. His anxious face smoothed out and spent a month setting up the solar panels and batteries, an exercise in how much shock therapy a test subject could withstand. A further month was spent jiggling impatiently while her systems charged and idle hands were nothing compared to an idle Caboose.

As she returned to the present she watched Caboose dig into a knapsack for the alligator clips he had traded Grif for some Doritos. The rats had gnawed and frayed several sections through the middle and Sheila had seen boomerangs that bent less than the prongs of the socket.

He whistled, happily oblivious as he pulled aside a panel in Sheilas consol. His head cocked at the tangle of wires but standing out amongst them were the red, blue, green, yellow and brown.

"Caboose, are you alright? Remember, it's the red wire, and the brown wire to earth it."

"Of course I remember Sheila! You told me lots of times! Side effects of electrocution include cardiac arrest, short term memory loss, hair loss, loss of consciousness, Restless Leg Syndrome, spontaneous combustion, amnesia, tingling, uncontrollable screaming, vomiting, short term memory loss, headaches, erectile dysfunction, seizures, Tony Danzaphobia, suicidal tendencies, short term memory loss, irritability, anal leakage, sleepwalking, nymphomania, egomania, kleptomania, morbid fear of facial hair, short term memory loss-" He sucked in a noisy breath, "And short term memory loss. Yay! Blue wire!"

"Caboose!" Sheila snapped, her avatar blowing spiny bangs out of her face in exasperation. "Red. Wire."

"Re-_ed_?" he whined but pushed aside the other wires and snapped the clip where he had exposed some of the copper.

Just as she breathed a sigh of relief, he touched it to his tongue.

The world exploded! An electric blue arc propelled Caboose across the room trailing smoke and sparks before hitting the far wall. Alarms shrieked! Sheilas monitors died hissing and spitting! Pop! Pop! Pop! Fluorescent tubes shattered showering glass and hot white embers! On the far side of the room, after a brief moment hanging in the indentation, Caboose sagged to the floor.

Finally the alarms shutdown and Sheila faded into view, dazed even for a computer program.

"Caboose!" She darted to a monitor closer to his prone form, her binary flashing erratically. Although Sheila had never personally owned hands there were the phantom memories of her imprinted mind, the mind she had been cloned from. She wanted very much to crouch at his side and pat his hand. "Why would you do a thing like that!" she scolded in the way of all mothers when their slightly retarded child has had a near miss.

"Tucker taught me that was the way to check batteries," he groaned, shooting cross eyed glares at the several toilet paper Tuckers orbiting his vision. He stood up, took two wobbly steps and fell forward again.

Sheila sighed and divided her memory between running CPU diagnostics and an EEG. The surge protectors had saved her from the worst of the damage but they had lost most of the stored electricity. Cabooses brainwaves were normal, or at least normal for Caboose which was somewhere between a cucumber and a hamster with shaken brain syndrome.

On the third attempt, as he pulled himself onto the consol up another spark earthed itself. Dials, counters and buttons sprang alive and the scream of radio feedback filled the cabin.

_Its that bluh-bloody pom Whuh-Wyoming! Luh-hower than a snakes arsehole!_ Caboose squealed and dove for the table just as bullet fire erupted over the speakers. Several times the owner tried to speak but couldnt get past their own harsh panting. The live wires snaking and rustling over the floor splashed the walls with ominous blue light.

Bottles burst in the background just as Caboose knocked aside his juice, ducking out of sight and hiding his eyes.

_Whuh__-why didn't I juh-oin the office aerobics club? Why-eeeee! _the voice wailed, again engulfed by hissing and crackling.

* * *

Several systems away in a dingy hotel room, a television flickered over a man sitting in a creaking, lopsided swivel chair with his feet up. His discipline honed body, scarred and scorched, shook as he stared past the television with ferocious intensity. His lip curled and teeth bared like a mistreated dog watching someone take a bone that was gnawed and yellowing but nevertheless his.

As cameras flashed and journalists yowled like cats on heat, Agent Washington closed his eyes and rested his head in his hand.

Life had started out so promising. Well off parents, boarding school education, three time school boxing champion... How had he ended up like this? Sitting in a room worth less than his belt buckle, reading graffiti a nine year old could correct and a mind like a jigsaw puzzle in a nursing home. So many pieces were missing and of those that werent, at least half belonged to a different box.

His fingers brushed the mementos of his own personal war, a starburst of pale burn tissue splashed his temple, three claw like scars raking his cheek and his hair... Though only in his early thirties, his once dark brown hair, shorn along the sides with loose crown turned the colour of cocoa powder and was fading fast. It was one of the oddities of the Freelancer program. Wyoming was white as an orthodontists teeth before his first year and even Tex's ginger red was ribboned with grey.

But in a world two years after the end of the Covenant War where whole squads had returned with fewer innards than a Greek butcher, Wash's dead eyes and hateful expression did not stand out.

Director! Doctor Leonard Church! What do you have to say to the Chairmans allegations?

The pencil in bunched white knuckles snapped.

Without opening his eyes he could see the _farce_ imprinted against his lids. He would carry himself down the steps of Melbournes old courthouse, past hallowed stone facades and pigeon stained statues, the thin lipped smile of a man who had pissed in the fountain of truth for years while watching everyone else sniff and gargle happily. _You were fine before you knew what I was doing; do you really want to keep digging now that you have the results you wanted? _

And the media loved him.

They didnt see the man who had given command after reprehensible command at an arms length. A man who ordered death or whisky in the same mellow southern tones and when you dared to question the morality, hed puff in bellow of staged fury, _I sold my soul for the greater good, how dare you judge me!_

He wilted or glittered in their lamplight as needed, just another corroding cog in the war machine that had worn out its purpose. His only use was as a UNSC scapegoat. Australians were morons and a misplaced support that saw their public rallying around him._ Oh the poor lil battler! Its just like em! Them big basdurds always sellin out the lil bloke like spongecake!_ _Thats defamation that is! The basdurds! No proof! No proof at awl!_

_NO PROOF!_ Washingtons inner voice roared. His hand hovered over his abdomen which burned in sympathy. Hed had so many near death experiences he needed a coupon. Perhaps when his hole was punched for the tenth time he got club merchandise. _I Got Infected By an Aggressively Insane AI and All I Got Was This Combat Stress Disorder (And a Lousy T-Shirt)._

Washingtons blood pressure bounced off the stratosphere as the mob surrounding the courthouse fell into an expectant silence.

He appeared from behind the Roman columns of Sydneys High Court, fenced from the crowds by lawyers and bodyguards but he towered over them. In his youth he would have been tall and lanky but middle age had filled him out and the twenty years after that had overflowed into a solid paunch.

Wash remembered him as tense and volatile, flying down hallways, slamming doors and hurling bottles but the events of the last few months had aged him terribly. The wrinkles puckered around his eyes, his buzzcut hair and neatly trimmed beard was salted more peppered but most noticeable of all was shoulders, hunched and defensive. The man who spent his life on the offensive felt betrayed when the world had him cornered.

But as a camera zoomed unkindly across in on his face Wash thought he was more dangerous than ever. Blue eyes as hard as diamond chip swept across his audience, gauged it- and sagged. His face took on a glassy cast, pinched with stress and smiled weakly for his audience.

Doctor Church! Doctor Church! What do you have to say about the new charges of evidence tampering, shouted one of the international reporters, thrusting a padded microphone as close as he dared.

Sah, I have been under house arrest since charged with my original, he paused for an amused coughed, Charges were laid. I have done nothing of the sort. I suspect you are referring to the hearsay of supposed evidence provided by an uncertain source. When Standoff Command of planet Xeno IV was overrun, without provocation and entirely unnecessary I might add, a soldier spotted another in the heat of battle.

This soldier stood out because he wore obsolete Mk 5 armour and was supposedly carrying an AI storage unit. As our rel_ia_ble witness trailed this peculiar soldier and drew close enough to hear his curious mumblings of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Our rel_ia_ble witness escorted the soldier to a tent owned by Christian Lurves, Chairman of the Oversight Committee. A man who has long wanted to sweep me under his greasy, bureaucratic wing and to whom the rel_ia_ble witness answers. Is it true? We dont know because the AI storage unit was not admitted into evidence.

It is conjecture that there was an AI storage unit, and that there was an AI in that storage unit. It is conjecture that it was one Project Freelancers Artificial Intelligence or that anything it had to say would have any bearing on these charges. I think they have no proof and _deah_ Mister Chairman is grasping at straws. Lastly, I prefer chicken with Dijon mustard to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but who can account for the tastes of figments of the imagination?

He smiled benevolently at his crowd, taking strength from pencils scribbling and mumbling into personal recorders. He nodded good day and climbed the rest of the steps to the entrance of Melbournes High Court. Several tried to break the police barriers but were thrown back by burly policemen.

No proof! Doctor Leonard Church called almost cheerfully over his shoulders.

Wash snarled, snatched an end of snapped pencil and stabbed it violently into the cheap plywood. The bastard was lying through his teeth! Here he sat in a run down dump, a fugitive while that _fucking_ bastard was hailed by a nation of convicts as world weary hero.

In the television's glow he bowed his head in memory of a memory. The poor, desperate and broken caricature, Epsilon who had been human enough to feel pain.

It was then karma decided to throw him a bone.

The shrill beeping of a distress signal took Wash by such surprise that he dived, rolled across the floor and came up armed before his forebrain intervened. As the pistol cocked loudly against the white noise he came to his senses and snorted sheepishly, and nudged the bathroom door open where his Spartan armour was stacked inside the shower stall.

As he retrieved the helmet a tiny red bulb blinked at him and he frowned slightly. It was a distress signal. It was broadcasted across the Freelancer band but it was not from Command. Of course it wasnt but- The bulb stuttered for a second, and his heart leapt anxiously after it flickered again and he snapped it on before he could lose the signal.

Electrical feedback rasped eerily off the cheap tiles before a voice croaked desperately into it. It had run and run until their own breathing had raked their throat raw and knew that to stop was to die.

_He-hes after me! And he wont stop! He wants suh-omething. Bigger than Freelancer! Bigger than Alpha! _Here they broke into a deranged giggle. _Fuck yeah!- He wants a Covenant Army! Epsilon was lost on purpose to get the Direc- _The snow hissed and something sizzled the electronics.

Washs eyes bulged and yanked the helmet over his head, punching tines as long as his thumb into the neural implant at the nape of his neck.

This is Agent Foxtrot Four! Repeat last message!

The silence punched through the static when finally the person on the other end began its shaky breathing again. _Washington?_

Indiana?

They disappeared as snow sleeted across the COM. Someone was trying to block the transmission...

* * *

The skies swarmed with abandoned military satellites. Xeno III was the closest out of system colony to Reach before the final days of the Covenant War but even the marshalling stations that scattered the planet had been evacuated once Freelancer had been shutdown. It had been scoured head to tail and all that was left was Outpost 17-B, the proverbial cockroaches that survived the mushroom cloud.

Amongst the satellites a radio signal ceased its hunting and froze. It heard the message, repeated it, cleaned it and filtered it. It replayed the final words over again.

_Damn! I know hes got us cornered! I aint dying like a bloody rat in a trap... You know what, fuck you! Do you have a better plan? Oh. Perfect. Simple yet suicidal, how do you come up with these ideas, Tex? Fu-argh! _The voice severed violently. The message rewound-_wheedle, wheedle, wheedle_!- and replayed. _Perfect. Simple yet suicidal, how do you come up with these ideas Tex? _Wheedle, wheedle, wheedle! _These ideas, Tex! _Wheedle, wheedle! _Tex! _Wheedle, wheedle! _Tex! TexTexTexTexTex..."_

The signal, if thats what it was, paused and like an arrow aimed for Valhalla.

* * *

_Oh wow! After a million years I've finally gotten around to posting this and I'm suddenly a stunned mullet!_

_I suppose I should say this is the first serious thing I've written in years, but Red vs Blue does that to you. Remnant is my second attempt at Red vs Blue fanfiction, the first one hit bedrock and accelerating. This one didn't actually do any better in the beginning, characters didn't hash, my style which is a phailing attempt at Terry Pratchett's hilarious style didn't click and no plot, and then just before Recreation started I had my Eureka moment and things took off. In the meantime at least 3000 more words were written and discarded for pacing reasons. _

_Let this be two contradicting lessons, first don't be afraid to abandon an unworkable project even if you've put work into it. Second, keep plugging away at something until you have a plot you can see through to the end._

_And then I had the idea to start a fanfiction archive, and that derailed me even more. But we're here, you're here, RvB Society is here so no worries!_

_Infinite thanks now go to a couple of blokes. The first is Concealed Eminence, an legendary beta who eggs me on with his constant enthusiasm and Empty Gold Eyes who went to amazing lengths and detail for the Remnant Poster you can look at in my profile. If you're ever looking for Spartan Armour commission artist, she's the one to go to!_

_Please, please join me at RvBfics(dot)com, a Red vs Blue fanfiction archive just for you! Another nifty place to go to is right here, the Red vs Blue Review Crew Forums. A legend little community that supports RvB writers. Drop in, you wont regret it._

_I close by saying the usual, Constructive Crit, opinion, bias, bitching- all appreciated. Are they In Character? How's the flow? Do the scenes changes make sense? Ta mates! Catchysup!_

**_This chapter has been updated 10/6/2010 since FFnet was a bastard and took away my decorative scene breaks. This AN has been slightly updated but mostly original! Thankyou everyone for your support!_**


	2. Tie Me Down Sport!

**Red vs Blue Remnant  
**_Tie Me Down Sport_

"Saaarge!" Simmons wailed as he loped through the dew drenched grass of Valhalla's midmorning. He splashed across the gurgling creek with a strange, loping gait, surprisingly fast despite looking like a giraffe with arthritis.

He'd tried for several minutes to contact his CO but his teammates had left their mics on again so could only be interrupted by blasting static and exercise catchphrases. Sarge never skipped a beat even as Simmons skidded to a stop in front of them.

"Feel the burn! Ride the pain! Grit those teeth! Don't breathe in! Oxygen is for sissies! I will light a fire under that tub of lard you call a belly if that will get you an inch of the ground, blubberbutt!" Simmons stared in dismay as Sarge stood on Grif's bare toes forcing him into rolly, polly situps. Capillaries stood out like an LA road map on his flushed cheeks and his face screwed up with fear and effort as each slogan was punctuated by a buckshot several inches from his face.

"Sarge-"

"Don't interrupt me during training ops, Simmons! Three! Three, three, _threee_. Oh for crying out loud turdburger! We've been here fifteen minutes and you can't give me three situps?"

"Three?" Grif wheezed as he flopped back down. "I saw my life flash before my eyes!"

"That would have been interesting, twenty nine years of _I Dream of Jeannie _reruns and the ghosts of microwave burritos past," Simmons smiled smugly in the face of Grif's crosseyed glare. "But I have very important news!"

"More important than my glimpse of death?"

"As much as I'd miss fishing your mouldy socks from the vegetable crisper, yes. I received a mayday transmission!"

"Spit it out man!"

"It was a distress call from a Freelancer sir!"

"Yeah, so what," Grif grunted, pulling one of his perpetual dogends from the nicotine tarpit behind his ear. Sarge waited patiently until it was alight between his lips before the butt of his rifle swung down, clipping it from Grif's fingertips.

"I hate to agree but fatchops has a point."

Simmons hesitated. How did this relate to them? The long range signal came all the way from Earth. And it _was_ targeting Freelancers. Sarge's squad were the least qualified soldiers in the history of warfare dating back to when pointy sticks were considered weapons of mass destruction.

And yet he didn't want to be stuck here, marooned and forgotten, his potential left to rot. His mind strayed back to his days at Blood Gulch. He hated every minute, unable to look in a mirror and not just because it was obscured by Donut's cosmetics. Twenty-eight, and nothing to show for it except fake medals and commendations.

No one cared about them here, would it really matter if they had a _leeetle_ itty bitty field trip to Earth to follow up a legitimate distress call? One that could rope a key witness against the Director?

He saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

It was only later he realised it was the blinding beacon of a freight train that was going to clean him up and drag him along for another six months.

Blissfully unaware, he sucked in a breath and plunged forward.

"Sir, do you think it's a coincidence that Command hid us in this backwater planet while the biggest war crimes trial of the century is going on down on Earth. A trial where we could be giving valuable evidence? Then just as it goes to the final hearing we get this? Who knows more about Project Freelancer than us, sir?"

"Anyone who has more than five TV channels?" Grif chipped in sourly in the voice of a man grievously wronged.

Simmons ignored Grif and studied his superior's face, lined and leathery in a heavy frown. You could hear the rusting clockwork working overtime. He was a man whose creative filter of the Red Army Handbook that would put a real estate agent to shame but his loyalty for what he thought of as 'Red and Right' was the proverbial immovable object.

"Sir, they must have known there were bigger fish to fry than us! They must want us to find the Freelancer and safely escort them for questioning! What will Command think if we ignore it?" Sarge's face remained impassive and Simmons tried one last time. "I suppose they could ask Caboose..."

Sarge's face cracked wide. "That dirty Blue! That's been his scheme all along! Lulling us into a false sense of security and then- Whammo! He steals our glory out from under our nose! The only thing they understand is a show of strength! Grif, you go stand beneath the waterfall and hold that boulder over your head where the Blue Base can see you! Simmons, you show me this transmission! Everyone double time!"

"Yes sir!" Both privates snapped off a crisp salute, the usually lazy soldier earning a queer look.

The pair disappeared over the hill and Grif bent over with a stitch even though he hadn't gone twenty meters into the shade of the boulder Sarge had indicated. Lifting it would have made him a sagging imitation of Atlas so he collapsed with a clatter, snapped on his transistor radio and pulled out another cigarette from hidden recesses. "Sure Sarge, I'll get right on that."

By the time they reached the communications room in the sub-basement level Simmons was trying to conceal he was out of breath but Sarge removed his helmet showing no discomfort. He glared at the dials and lit buttons arrayed across the console, the monitors still flitting the length and breadth of the valley.

Simmons covered himself by replaying the message and by the time it finished he could speak again without panting.

"See sir! Tex!" he said with relish. He was missing her half of the conversation but Tex was Venus in armour and her companion despite the squeaky pitched voice filter was also clearly female. Why the two couldn't save themselves wasn't clear but they were bound to be grateful. Well maybe not Tex but the other one, surely? Very grateful perhaps? The signal originated from Sydney, Australia and his mind's eye was bombarded with beach blonde beauties carving up the surf.

He suddenly became aware of Sarge's sharp gaze and was glad his visor hid a sloppy grin. "It certainly looks legit, but what's this flashing do-hicky do?"

His eyes rested on a COM channel alert he'd missed in haste. He'd never trained in military communications- he hadn't been trained in anything beyond, _Point this end at the enemy and press this little switchy-thingy here, _but you didn't get to be the official smart one by saying things like _I'm not sure._

He yanked off his helmet and flung himself down onto the swivel chair which rolled away forcing him to scoot undignified back to the middle. Keys rattled like machine gun volleys.

"What is it Simmons!" Sarge demanded over his shoulder. "Are those blutards trying to hack our flamenetting! Do you need the fire extinguisher?"

"No sir," he cringed as he remembered the foam from last time. "It's a signal that's been using the abandoned military satellites for the last three months, just random bouncing. It's initiated contact! It's circling Valhalla installations looking to port. And-" More rapid fire tapping. "It has no AIT!"

"No AIT! Diabolical! What will those Blues think of next! The whole system will crash, planes will fall out of the sky, I won't be able to programme our VCR! How will I watch my Sunday flyfishing now Simmons! How? This requires immediate retaliation. First we strap plasma grenades to Grif-"

"I'm sure you know sir," Simmons interjected diplomatically as Sarge pulled the rocket launcher from the emergency weapons cache to go along with enough rifles strapped to his back for an entire platoon. The effect was of an apocalyptic porcupine.

"An AIT is an Automated Identification Tag. It tells us who sent the message and where it came from, like Return to Sender on a letter. It's programmed, you can lie about it or camouflage- ha!- it but it has to have one. This signal has literally come from nowhere! And-" Simmons' voice dropped. He scanned the rest of the code scrolling down the screen in a blur and in less time it took Grif to read about Ben the dog and his big red ball. "Sir, it's bypassed our electronic encryption. By itself. If it's that flexible that means it's generated by an AI sir."

The room was still except for the silent accusing alert strobing shadows across their expressions.

"Red Team faces all enemies head on Simmons. Accept the call."

The maroon soldier licked his lips. "Yes sir, but I suggest we turn our radios off first."

"An excellent precaution Simmons. Go the transmisserising!"

On the other side of the valley shielded by rocky crags Caboose sprawled in the sun, partially singed and wholly smoking. Even in the glaring Valhalla midday the sight was spectacular as it was terrifying.

A hot white beam lanced the cloud like the hand of god, laced with snaking electric tendril and jagged tongues of lightning. They licked the granite wall to rain rubble, crashing and crunching and blowing meteoric dents into Red Base! It hit the Red radio tower and the air hummed, rippling out like a heatwave that struck Caboose's sensitive mind like a tuning fork- _Whuhm__!_

Inside Red Base, floor after floor blacked out and shut down, room after room filled with the dying burr of electronic, monitor after monitor shrank down to a white speck.

Far below Sarge and Simmons felt that same vibrating _Whuhm_ brush their minds just before their own floor was enveloped in almost darkness, underscored by the amber wires burning dully down his left side.

"What the hell! Who turned out the lights!" Grif's voice echoed down the hallway and Simmons turned to his superior in horror. There was no _fucking_ way that moron remembered to turn off his COM radio! Simmons winced as Grif's hands fumbled in the dark and he squawked, "I dropped my cigarette. Help me find it, I only have nineteen packs left 'til next drop off!"

Suddenly the high pitched beep that heralded an AI transmission whined through his earpiece. He jerked around just in time to see the signal spike.

"Son of a bitch!" he hissed.

"Son of a bitch!" Grif shouted again.

All around them lights resumed their steady glow and computers clicked to reboot but over the top of them came Grif's heavy tread. The orange armour eclipsed the doorway to a desperate silence, his expression shielded by the helmet dipped low and haloed by safety bulb behind him. Simmons quick intake of breath caused it to look up, reach out-

"What?" Grif snapped, bending down and rubbing a stubbed toe.

Suddenly the transistor radio at his waist crackled to life and grunted in familiar exasperation. "Son of a bitch."

_

* * *

_

He smiled as a combat knife whirled past his ear and embedded itself in the holographic terrain, but the Chairman of the Oversight Committee was like that. As his temper reached boiling point the temperature of the air around him seemed to plummet. Every seemingly pleasant question felt like an icepick fossicking through your skull.

_Looking Chairman would bring to mind words like _dapper_ or _smart_, but also words like _cadaver_. You got the feeling he had been taken specially from his trundle at the mortuary and warmed up just to look down on you. Pale, almost translucent skin like a deep dwelling fish and ash blond hair combed so close to the scalp it could have been painted on. He wore neither armour nor fatigues but a faded charcoal suit that enhanced the image he was about to be buried. _

_He gave the overall impression of a man named Jeeves, but in fact he was Christopher Lurves and anything less than _Yes Chairman sir_, would stunt a man's military career for a long time to come._

_Every eye in the crowded room darted from the quivering blade, to the Chairman of the Oversight Committee, to the grey and yellow Mark 6 Armour leaning casually against a tent pole as if he hadn't appeared like mist inside their inner sanctum. _

_In the horrified hush sounds filtered up from the plains where the Battle for Standoff was coming to a clumsy end. The Meta had decimated their officers, their Director had abandoned them and before the newly ranked could take control the hotheads attacked the beige CQB clad soldiers of Oversight leading to more unnecessary casualties. _

_"And please make sure that only trusted soldiers stand guard. I'm sure you don't want to lose a single postit note," he continued in clipped British tones as if never interrupted. "Ahh! What a timely arrival Agent Washington, we've just dug the Director and Councillor from their hidey hole. I do hope we haven't interrupted any of your plans because you see-" He stopped circling the table, absently stroking the holographic keys to bring up various fire fights. He flicked him a sidelong look, unable to keep the sneer from his voice, "You have interrupted some of ours. Your EMP has erased some quite important documents required as evidence. I might even go so far as to say, _crucial_."_

_If the Freelancer felt discomfort that his covert identity was recognised here, unknown even within the Agency, he didn't show it. _

_"Sorry, after eight years I got a bit impatient," the yellow stripped helmet said airily. "I knew the high ups were incompetent egotists who never knew what was going to ground but as far as fuckups go, this deserves some kind of national monument. Really, bravo."_

_Everyone in the room quickly nominated the closest exit and while no one did anything so crude as move their feet there was a magically widening gap around both men._

_"I wouldn't expect you to understand. I'm sure the good Director will be happy his pet science project mopped up his enterprise so cleanly."_

_"Your afternoon scones and tea-time correspondence with him indicated you had master copies," the Agent countered, this time with an edge._

_Christopher arched an eyebrow but he didn't elaborate. "The timestamps were doctored, Agent Washington. Expertly. They won't hold up in court. You or your elusive labrats?"_

_"Then it's just as well _I_ had a failsafe. I have one of the AI safely away from the EMP radius."_

_"Impossible. Of the thirty two AI successfully extracted from the Alpha, seven were captured in the field by the individual known as Meta, twelve destroyed in the field and an electronic docket extracted before the EMP accounted for all others in holographic storage. There are _no_ AI from Project Freelancer left." _

_He spat his last words with venom and Wash's smirk wavered behind his visor. He rushed through mental arithmetic as he paired Agents and AI's. And flashed a parody of a grin, _Or no fragment at all? You really can't trust her_. "I had a soldier carrying the AI Epsilon out of range."_

_A CQB helmed lieutenant looked up in horrified surprise. "Is that what that was? Sir! An unidentified soldier in blue Mark 5 armour carrying a storage unit turned up in the mess tent."_

_"What how did he get there? What was he doing?" barked another ranked officer._

_"Making a sandwich... sir..." the lieutenant trailed off in the face of the Chairman's penetrating stare. It was clearly questioning how an unidentified soldier had gotten by their _crack_ security squad. He swallowed hard._

_The answer was simple. _

_Post Traumatic Stress could take a soldier anytime, anyhow. On the field, at home, in the grocery store. You could only hope they crawled into the foetal position, rocking gently until helped arrived. When a fully armed soldier waltzed into a base, talking to a box and requesting peanut and jelly sandwiches from the armoury, you did not want to put the match to _that_ powder keg._

_Christopher smiled a viciously bright smile. "Well don't just stand there, show our guest some proper hospitality! We have plenty of refreshments to make him comfortable. And please relieve him of his burden, we will be sure to keep it safe for him."_

_"Chairman.__ Sir. I would like to escort it personally to the UNSC Military Court Officials." _

_The Chairman's friendly smile never flickered. "Why Wash, it is we who should be wary of you. If you felt inclined not a man in this room could stand against you. Epsilon is in safe hands now."_

_"Excuse me if my faith in military protocol isn't absolute. I. Insist." It was not the hint of threat but the promise. The two Explosive Ordinance soldiers scouring a map in the corner, used to slow burning fuses sensed now was the time to back away slowly._

_"Washington. If you can't trust them, trust me."_

_Suddenly the moment became so crowded that to the impressionable privates everything happened instantly- all it needed was some bullet time effects._

_The canvas wall directly behind Wash shimmered out like a pebble in a pond and through it emerged a soldier. More importantly it aimed a pistol head high. _

_Wash dropped._

_His gauntlets came down heavily on the wrists of the escorts on either side, snatching their SMG's as they fumbled. He whirled, one aiming for the Chairman's throat, the other aimed just below the waist between the arrival's black matte plates. Depending on how vindictive Washington felt he could either take out the femoral artery or an organ that wasn't vital but still very personal._

_Behind them every other weapon in the room targeted Agent Washington. One wrong move and Washington would be reincarnated as a colander._

_The silver and teal trimmed arrival in recognisably Mark 6 Freelancer armour nodded at Washington and casually holstered the M6D pistol. They had recently been withdrawn from circulation but when you were a Freelancer the world opened up to you._

_"I see you haven't let yourself get sloppy Wash."_

_"You have."_

_"Really?"__ The helmet looked pointedly down as a spiny ball no bigger than a marble stuck to Washington's heel. It was a pulsejack and when detonated it disrupted the armour's electrical signals for scarcely a second. More than enough to change the odds. _

_"Anyone who can't take me on in a firefight I'd advise you to leave now," the new Freelancer said quietly. His accent had French overtones, soft and unthreatening. There was a cough and after a moment pointedly longer than protocol allowed he amended, "Excluding the Chairman."_

_"You could always get your hands on anything, Delaware," Washington said dryly, scraping his boot on the dirt to dislodge the jack._

_"And you were trying to earn Daddy's approval, look where it got you. Besides David, I left Delaware behind six years ago. I'm a senior prosecutor for the military court now. Since Freelancer officially disbanded it's Artificial Intelligence trials I've been using every screed at my disposal to reveal Doctor Church's secrets. This is our chance and I won't let him slip through the cracks. I promise." _

_For more than a minute the two didn't speak but the Chairman suspected private COMs. Finally Delaware nodded and Wash nodded back._

_"Thankyou Agent Washington, I won't disappoint. Many Freelancers were making good money on the side as mercenaries, they won't be happy in the public eye and they'll be even less happy if you're called to give testimony." _

_Although he maintained his easygoing smile, Delaware would rather call Hannibal Lector to the stand. Lector may have been an unrepentant murdering cannibal, but at least he was a charismatic unrepentant murdering cannibal. Washington was as charming as jock itch._

_"How many of us are left?"_

_"It's hard to tell. The Director covered his tracks and ours, the fool. When I tried to return to civilian life I was listed as a homicide victim. It's not nice to see your own head several meters from you're intestines. Flash clones of course but I bet he had a thumb in every pie to make those little markers go away on a death certificate." _

_Delaware chuckled mirthlessly, his hands in the habit of drumming absently on his crossed arms as his visor stared at the space just over Wash's shoulder. _

_"I don't think there's any more than twenty five and as few as fifteen. We're quite the endangered species and most days I don't regret that."_

...And that was it. Not seven days later Epsilon was stolen from a secret Oversight facility. Several solid meters of titanium and security protocols harder than Chinese algebra translated into English by the Swedish Chef and they may as well have slapped a child's bikechain on it with his birthday as the combination!

Christopher Lurves seethed behind a mask of impassivity as on the stone steps below Doctor Leonard beamed before the evening news, quipping Dijon mustard nonsense.

It could be nothing but the work of Freelancers and although he had loathed the blas bastard Agent Washington on sight _he_ wanted the Director's head on a platter more than himself. Oversight's own inside agent, Delaware's gentle roll of banter barely hitched when he was informed but when he had left the room in his own unique way there were the sounds of expensive eighteenth century porcelain smashing on the other side.

"Excuse me Chairman, but the final hearing is about to begin and being late would not have the desired impression."

To speak of the devil.

Delaware appeared at his side, hunching slightly to speak into his ear and as he did he saw what the Chairman was watching. He smiled briefly with an indecipherable, _humph. _

"Of course," Christopher nodded, glad to drag his eyes away from the bloated ego and walking in the wake the ex-Freelancer cleared through a crowd buzzing with gossip.

No one who'd had a chance to see a line up of the ill fated Freelancers would have picked Laurence Murdoch amongst them.

The Freelancer Project had attracted a certain kind of mind; selfish, ambitious, greedy, withdrawn, aggressive... He wasn't surprised when research uncovered their electroencephalography scans were almost identical to the Director's own. They were all so scarred, inside and out, with hollow eyes, hunted expressions or mad rictus grins, always twisting their heads as if startled by an inner voice.

Laurence was almost a head taller than himself, strong built and his civic duties clearly didn't interfere with old training habits. The secretaries of Oversight giggled behind hands that he belonged on a television medical drama with a name like McSteamy or McDreamy or McMuffin something fanciful. All wavy black hair, warm brown eyes and a coy sense of humour. And of course his accent. It was a wonder they did anything useful at all.

Deep in thought he shouldered somebody to the side and absently tried to clear his sleeve caught on a briefca-

The sleeve gave a fierce tug and he was twisted to face a little old- No, a young woman not yet into her twenties with greying hair piled into a bun. Although she had gone to every effort to be neat and professional something about her had generated an internal scruffiness.

Again she wretched hard, compelling him to meet her gaze.

"Don't let him get away with it!"

"You! You're one of them!" Christopher eyes widened passing through several expressions in quick succession. Indignation, surprise, disbelief and finally, triumph. The photojournalist who'd caught the moment made him look like a man in the pangs of acute gastritis who'd finally reached the front of a toilet queue.

He grabbed for her wrist while searching over the heads of the crowd for Laurence but he must have disappeared inside the courtroom. He tried again to hold her but she had vanished amongst the press of bodies.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

* * *

"Son of a bitch!"

For several seconds the Reds stared incredulously at the transistor radio before Sarge reacted, snatching it from Grif's waist and levered a chip from inside.

"Gotcha!" he crowed, holding his prize aloft. "Caught 'cha ya dirty Blue! We got the leader, victory is ours!"

"What! What the fuck! Where am I? Let me out!" the tinny voice of Leonard Church raged from far away. Static crashed from one stereo to the other like someone charging a barrier only to be flung back.

"No can do, Blue," Sarge taunted, dropping the radio to the ground and lifting a menacing boot. "Prepare for a _crushing_ defeat."

"You can't do this!" Church squawked, bashing at his electronic confines in a panic. "I- I- Tex! You're looking for Tex too! I can help!"

"Sarge, wait!" Simmons shouted, surprising even himself. He flopped to the floor and throwing his good arm over the radio protectively. "We might need him!"

"What's this, a mutiny? What are you jabbering about Simmons?" Sarge glared down at Simmons upturned and rather pinched face but still not lifting his boots as the crampons dug in. "This is our chance to clean up once and fer all and get big Red medals from Command!"

"But New Command has already given us a mission, sir," Simmons reminded, wincing as Sarge pressed his point. "Safeguard the Freelancer and deliver them to a safe facility so they can give testimony against Old Command." The maroon soldier trailed off as he sensed scepticism. "Tex shoots first and doesn't see the need to ask questions later. He can convince her to come quietly. Or at least catch most of the bullets!"

"I can? I mean, yeah I can! Of course I can!" The radio that now contained Church burbled with relief and whispered, "Simmons, I owe you a steak, now let me out!"

"I doubt that. Sarge removed your transmitter so the only way out of there is with a hardline. You're going to cooperate and tell us everything we need because there's no telling if I can keep Sarge away forever," Simmons said with a toadying wink to his superior.

"Simmons you crafty devil! Now we get the fun of mental torture and psychological sabotage."

"Thankyou sir, it's all for the glory of my commanding officer and my team," he fawned, basking in Sarge's rare, if not non-existent praise.

"If you can take your tongue out of his ass for ten seconds, I can't help without a body."

"Why not Grif's? He's not using it," Sarge predictably offered.

"Fuck that! This body is built for one!"

"The airline stewardesses disagreed."

"I'll be fucked if I'm staying in a box! Get me a body!"

"Church? Church is that you?" A big honest face poked behind the doorway but quickly shrank back as sparks and shotgun spray leapt off the frame. He waited several second before craning around. Grif hadn't moved and Simmons stared up at him. No, they were staring at the spot to his lef-

The butt of Sarge's shotgun came down on the flat of his head and Caboose went down like an ancient redwood.

"Looks like we got us a volunteer!"

"Oh hell no, I pick the box!"

Several frantic seconds later Simmon rubbed a bruised elbow as he set Church a high counter. The silver casing of the radio sported a new crack down its length.

Caboose's head proved harder than they thought and before they could stop him he flung himself at the fist sized box and squeezed it to his armoured chest, bubbling over with joy. Sarge was happy to oblige him another blow and Grif's bulk sat on his back for good measure.

"Alright, you sound like Church but it could just be a clever ploy to distract us. Prove it."

"You're a cry baby mammas boy with daddy issues that no one likes."

"Am-" he sniffed, "Not!"

"Pfft, anyone can tell that," Grif scoffed.

"And you're a fat lazy slob with a dumb slut for a sister."

"Pfft, everyone knows that," Simmons shot back.

"I know Sarge's first name, it's-" The ears all pricked.

"So," the grizzled sergeant shrugged lazily, his eye not leaving the rifle sight which had the radio squarely in its crosshairs. "I don't remember my name, that don't prove anything."

"Goddamn it you ringlicking bumchums! How do I prove I'm Church?"

Looks exchanged between the three. "Yeah, that'll do," Simmons allowed, eager to avoid more proof. A brief stint as an unsuccessful mole had revealed more than he liked to admit. "What happened to you after you went with Agent Washington? We haven't heard from either of you since Standoff."

A sense of hesitation stole over Church as he decided between old prejudices. Blue alliances told him he couldn't tell them too much and to keep an ace in the hole, but they had him by the balls. "Not good. That prick of a Director sicced the Meta onto us. Wash took a gutful and then-"

_Church had felt it. As he engulfed the Meta's ravaged mind he staggered into a pitch black cavern with the vast impression of emptiness. His ephemeral ghost body frightened him for the first time, dread weighed him to the spot. Stray thoughts of what had once been Agent Maine, a man named Tristan, flurried around his head like bats and posed no more threat. _

_Then in the distance he saw them, faint glowing balls like colourful minmin lights, circling and drawing closer until they were shaped. _

_"Allison!" he cried out in relief as he spotted the black Mark 6 armour but the cry turned to horror as its surface writhed, entirely composed of worming coils of smoke. It cackled like a James Bond villain._

Omega...

_Beside him hovered was white Mark five armour if Picasso had been involved as a conception artist._

Gamma...

_A spinning violet willowisp represented his despair._

Iota...

_A Romanian wrestler in a pink bikini was probably his sense of romance._

Kappa.._._

_A young boy with shaggy black hair and torn clothes, his greed._

Beta...

_They reached out to him and he panicked, firing off half a dozen rounds from his sniper which rippled harmlessly through their bodies and disappeared into the darkness._

_"Why are you fighting us Church?" Church wheeled to face the familiar voice._

_"Delta!"__ The green Mark five armour tilted its helmet in acknowledgement. "Help me!"_

_"Help yourself." _

_"Oh you riddling fuck! Just tell me!"_

_"No, fuck you and your riddles," he replied jollily. With poignancy the green AI raised its visor to reveal, of course, Leonard Church's own faintly smug and smiling face. _

_The realisation struck him like a physical blow. He wasn't a ghost. Every one of these monsters was a part of him and every one had left a raw, ragged hole burning inside he had never known, like a blind man staring down the full brilliance of the sun for the first time. The agony and the misery of how he'd lost them twisted out of reach like... _

_Like a memory. _

_Of course._

_Even as he fumbled for them, to his horror the sapphire blue of his gossamer body began to dissolve, fizzing and spitting like steam. He stood on the edge and looked into the endless void, felt the absolute chill of nothing. It would unravel him like Caboose's security blanket. Oblivion dragged at him from all sides._

_The emp!_

_He sucked in a shaky gasp, pulled himself together and leapt for freedom. _

_Leapt for the stars..._

"Wash set off the emp and I radioed out just in time," he finished lamely. He mentally shook himself. "It must of scrambled something. How long was I away?"

"Three months."

"Doesn't feel like it. It was like being spread out, like living as a cloud with no cohesion or self awareness. Like being Caboose." Then he heard Tex. Her name had pierced the fog. "But who cares. I know who and what I am now, and if I ever want to be whole I need Epsilon. Where is it?"

"Er, no news channels up there in Cloud-land?" Grif said around the cigarette balanced in the corner of his mouth. He picked it out between two fingers and blew an impressive ring of smoke. "Dude, it's disappeared. Stolen."

"I gave it to the nice man with the sandwich," Caboose chipped in the voice of the happily concussed. Apparently sick of his place under Grif's substantial ass he got up with no effort and Grif tumbled backwards, losing his ciggie under a shelf with a moan. Caboose sat crosslegged and bolt upright with the rapt attention of a child up at the radio. "And he was going into a superduper special secret box."

Simmons nodded sagely. He'd followed the saga through the news like a hawk, hoping they'd mention the brave actions of Richard Simmons, Private First Class. "The rest of the world doubts it even exists. It was taken away from Standoff and apparently put under lock and key with the Chairman's buddies from Section Three but vanished from state of their art security. No witnesses, no alarms, nothing."

"None of your buddies from Freelancer Blue? Ain't hold'n information out on us, are ya?" Sarge growled.

"I barely remember a thing about Freelancer, don't look at me like that!"

"How can you see? You're a radio!" Grif pointed out on his hands and knees, sweeping through the dustbunnies.

"Whatever. The point is we're both going the same way, you want your glory and shiny medals and I want Epsilon. Whoever stole him will be working with the Director and we can get to him. Where did you say they are?"

"Sydney, Australia. That's where all the bigwigs are, HIGHCOM and the Bravo-6 facility all buried under it. All fancy suits and _laws_, never seen a battlefield in their life," Sarge growled.

"So how do we get there. We can't call and EVAC or radio out, they'll want to know why we're going AWOL," Simmons pointed out.

The radio crackled giving the distinct impression it was smiling. "Does anyone know what Seneor El Roboto is up to?"

* * *

"Well Presto, I wondered how you infiltrated the building," Laurence whistled as he cornered a pair of legs sticking out of a vent. They squealed, echoing around the corroding boiler room underneath the Heritage listed courthouse. It was now used to store cleaning supplies, if at all.

The frantically backpedalling legs dumped something onto the concrete but it rolled to its feet with martial poise, a bony strut already raised to deliver a warning clip to the throat.

Laurence sighed, scuffing his boot in recently disturbed layer of dust. As she struggled with the blazer around her head no one would have thought bad of him for mistaking the figure for an old lady with osteoporosis and hepatitis. In fact she was Agent Indiana, Foxtrot Fifty Two and a babyfaced twenty six. Her eyes flickered as she identified him but didn't lower her guard, shifting from foot to foot with enviable balance, hanging so firmly in the air he could moor a boat off it.

But that was all to be envious of.

Laurence had encountered most of the remaining Freelancers in his investigations but while everyone had their mental tics, they had all coped better than Indiana.

There were survivors of atomic testing that had coped better than Indiana.

He found it hard to even look at her. Her once olive tanned skin had an unhealthy yellow tinge, her hair had gone the mysterious bluegrey achieved only by the elderly with cataracts and even the whites of her eyes looked dirty. Her emaciated body seemed to be cobbled together with craft pipecleaners complete with oversized bobble head. Even if that coiled power landed the perfect blow the weight behind it couldn't have been more forty kilograms soaking wet.

Worst of all, the smell hit him. He had been wondering about the toxic properties and passive ingestion of PinoClean but now he wondered if he could drive home safely because the alcohol that cloyed the air around her could have cleaned brass.

Indi saw his critical gaze and drew up haughtily. He thought he heard bones rattle. "Nice dyejob, Delaware. I can barely tell."

"Thank you Indiana. I'm a public figure these days and _'Mentally unbalanced hitmen_' has such negative connotations," he said dryly quoting one unflattering newsletter. "I was about to compliment you on your diet regime. You should sell it to the tabloids."

"Yeah, the alcohol, panadol and fuck-it-all diet does wonders, but I reckon waking up fourteen time a night screaming really takes the kilos off," she replied with eyes skitting.

That was another thing, watching her was exhausting. She relentlessly compensated, keeping a constant distance between her and him, shifting the balls of her feet, her weight and also adjusting for exit routes and possible attacks. As he took a step for a better look her chest hitched and she shuffled further into the corner, bristling.

"You're quite the escape artist, Br-"

"-Indi. Technically Cassie Fontane." Her eyes swivelled in their sockets, cocking her head for approaching footsteps and jerking at the distant clang of heating pipes. He took the opportunity to peer down the vent acting as an escape route. It was a confusing lattice of red rusted pipes no normal sized man could get by. It was winter, they were running hot so she couldn't disconnect any without alerting her presence. "It's not hard when they're civilians."

"True, but I was thinking about your miraculous reaper escape. We thought you were dead."

"I got better."

"Declared dead eight fifteen pm, twenty third of April five years ago caused by life support failure." A slow blink revealed her uncertainty, wincing and twitching.

"Come on mate," she whined, turning her stance again to deliver a nasty roundhouse at the slightest provocation. He remembered from personal experience that _provocation_ was defined as everything from unexpected noises to small inoffensive animals. "I'm not here to spit the dummy, swear it."

"I suspect your breath would cause more trouble than you could."

"I just wanted to see his arse in a sling. He's a skiving joe blake and I'd dob him inna heartbeat," she growled vehemently and then gave the startled look of anyone in two minds. "'Cept 'course, well... Y'know."

_Several highly trained hitmen at his beck and call were no match for policemen who wore short shorts in summer. Bravery was something that happened to other people, wasn't it Indiana._

"I understand, we all want him under the microscope. I wouldn't have fought so hard otherwise, but our Chairman wants to be a hero."

* * *

After her encounter with Laurence, Indi went back to the Farmer's Arms to steady her nerves. Theoretically Indiana's nerves were now steady enough to withstand a Richter Five earthquake.

"Z'oops!" She slid off the barstool muzzily and caught the counter with her fingertips, forcing herself upright. "Do not pass tipsy! Do not collect rationality! Go straight to shitfaced! Wheee!"

Her heart was no longer fibrillating and her head no longer throbbed, lost in the happy place between midnight kebab hunting and oblivion.

She knew the landlord, _-Bloody good ol' mate Dunc!-_ had been watering her drinks for the last fifteen minutes but was more out of concern than stinginess. It hadn't helped when she had started at one end and with the terminal determination of an Australian explorer set off to find the other, whether it existed or not.

He too had the neckports of an armoured soldier hidden surreptitiously under a mullet you could scrub a pot with and knew all about the darkside guarantees of war. She'd tried to cultivate the typical frontline cannon fodder of the Australian Army but the way she kept slapping down hundreds with the carelessness of a kid buying a two dollar bag of lollies was casting a certain doubt.

"Youse know, know Duncan? I love to have a beer with Duncan, you'sa mate! Gawd, I'm pissed. Iz fucking legend, y'know! Cos, alcholz iz like this cage. Shuz im up, see? Loz voices. They reckon, reckon thiz is z'ere body but they're, they're... trapped. Like bees inna jar, buzz buzz! Inna head? My head. Not real. Wait, wait... My head'z real. Be funny if my head wasn't real. Couln't drink if head wazn't real. Ha! But peoplez, in head. They'z not real. I'm spuh-civic 'bout that. I haz medcine. Well, someone'z medcine... Inna my head. But alc'hol, like a, a wall. Talk to za wall coz Indz not listening!"

A woman who looked barely old enough to hold an ID broke into zebra-like braying. "Don't have ta fight, see? Al'ays fighting coz it's my face, see? Oh, damn diuretics. Makes ya pee, see? Cos ions cross'n renal channels, nephritic, an... see? I gonna be... be wazname? Anmalz doctor... Thing? Y'know? Mate? But they found me and sed I waz speshul. Speshul, brain thingy. Goes up, down on oshun, stylz a'thing. Wave...Thingy. Damn diuretic. Make's yiz pee more. Ha! Off to seez a dog 'bout a man. Z'oops, man bout a dog! Weeeeee!"

She slithered off the barstool again, pulling herself so that just her squinting, laughing eyes peered over the wood at him. Fucking creepy.

"Alroight luv. Wait 'til you get back before you pass out or I'll be giving the sheila's a nasty surprise if I have to come and getcha," he said in careful tones but didn't seem too concerned. She was renting a room upstairs and had three days to test her capacity for drink. He had yet to find a limit. By law he had to ask every hour but he could no more refuse serving her than a child could refuse a key to a candy store.

"Can I have, have," her eyes glossed as she scanned the middle shelf, tantalizing with bottles of different shapes and sizes. "Somethin' sweet. Sticky, stylze a'thing... Cock'zail. Tail. Thing. Wiv umbella innit! Umbrell...Yay! Cocktailz!"

"Diamantina Cocktail it is. Ready when you come back, luv."

"Pieceapiss," she slurred and sniggered, ducking through the dunny door. She caught the basin and steadied herself, careful to avoid her sweatsmeared reflection, not that she could see much. She could already feel sobriety gnawing the edges, and through the fuzz the literal ache of her heart.

Her many health problems were piling up but if she went to a doctor he'd be unable to match the medical record with the patient, Cassie Fortane. If so he'd be immortalized as the man who discovered the cure for decapitation. She'd tried to quit drinking, it had been the worst weekend of her life, even including the battle on Athena VII, or when she'd been hostage or the time with the golf clubs and the miniature pony. Even worse than the day with the Vegemite

Bloody hell. She had been living almost normally for an Australian in their midtwenties- incapacitated on a couch- up until three months ago when Project Freelancer roared into the headlines kicking and screaming. She'd gone through four televisions, a ute and every insomnia cure the pharmacy could supply.

She flung her arms in the air, grinning crazily. "See! Tolja! Been there! Done that!" She made the mistake of breathing in to close to her own armpit and snorted. "Gyah! Needa new t-shirt! Can we go home now? I miss Bluey."

Her facial features twisted briefly, her hand came up but was quickly pulled into line. It was a small victory, it wouldn't last but she savoured it. She'd sleep it off and come back down for the Sunday Session. The live band was supposed to be pretty good.

Indi pushed the doors open with a reassuring but vaguely psychotic grin, "Duh-"

The words choked and every muscle locked tight. She blinked, scolded herself. There was something sweet, sticky with an umbrella in it waiting on the counter and no figments of her imagination could keep her from it.

A figure at the counter swam into focus.

He was in his late forties with bone white hair slicked back, curly moustache and the best muttonchops the British Empire had ever seen. He may have been swathed in an expensive Armarni but every ounce of him screamed safari suits, pith helmets and leopard skin belts.

Alarm bells shrieked to be heard but they were drowned out by the disappointment that she wouldn't get to find out what a Diamantina Cocktail tasted like. It sounded _sparkly!_

* * *

"So bloke, what's ya turps?" Duncan boomed to the new patron picking disparagingly at the fraying edges of the bar towels.

"Hmm? Oh no, good Keep, I'm not here to drink whatever slop you call beer. I'm looking for someone, although some_thing_ may be the more accurate descriptor."

"I see a lot of someones and somethings so ya gonna have to be more specific than that mate," Duncan said, leaning on his elbow and flourishing to the several beefy factory workers looking on with interest. They were all regulars and if the pom wanted to try anything on Dunc, looking for his teeth would be a secondary problem to finding fingers to pick them up with.

The pom sighed with no real regret. He ran his hand over a support beam; stained, scrolled and varnished in the image of a stockman and his bullocky team. "It's what I like about you Australian. Such... _craftsmen._Right now I see two men. One has a profitable future and a business to be profitable with, the other has no business concerns whatsoever because he'll be a slightly greasy pile of ash amongst many others. Now, I see I have your attention and a _burning_ desire to be of use. Where is she?"

Seconds later Wyoming swung open the saloon doors to the smells of boiling oil and chips. The kitchen looked quiet, yellowing linoleum, stainless steel counters, shabby cupboards and walls dedicated cooking utensils. He strolled through, running fingers over fryingpans hanging like pendulums, around a table, bending slightly peer beneath the gingham clothe.

He came to rest with his back to a counter and overlooking the door. "Quite a vermin problem here, I shall have to send a polite note to the sanitation council. Ho ho." As he chuckled he reached by his ear and flicked open a cupboard door to find Agent Indiana, crack trained super soldier and fugitive winding in and out of various tins and jars.

In Wyoming's presence her body was working overtime to do the work of a toilet bowl and a good night's sleep.

She pulled the door shut. _Clup__._

"Now come on Indi-" he coaxed, opening it. _Clup__._

"We can talk about thi-" _Clup__._

"Indi-" _Clup__._

"Some dignit-" _Clup__._

"Agent Indiana, if you try it again one more time I'll blow your foot off. They said I had to bring you in with your mind intact, they said nothing about the waist down although I'll admit for you the distinction would be difficult. Ho ho! Why don't you come out and we'll talk this over tea and biscuits. My mother always said civilization was built with tea and biscuits."

"You hassa mother? I 'zumed you just congealed under a rock somewhere."

"She also said manners were the few things in life that were free. I could make it rather costly." There was the sound of something shifting in its holster.

"Cuppa sounds just the thing! Can you turn around, I gotta skirt on." Wyoming averted his eyes obligingly, expecting the rattle of bottles as she untangled himself. Instead there was a faint chink and he spun the around just as she hit the ground, tucked and rolling and prepared for the door dash, skidding just in time as the linoleum melted and floorboards splattered around a pistol shot. She held up her hands in conciliation. "Settle, can't blame a woman for trying."

"If I see one I'll keep it in mind."

"Yeah yeah, I'm a shortarse, I get it. If yis quit the puns I'll come along quietly," she said, flicking on a kettle as she passed the stove. Mugs and spoons rattled and a packet of ginger biscuits appeared. Running wasn't an option, not with Wyoming's legendary headcount.

They shared a smile_, See we're all friends._

"I'm sorry about this."

"Pigs arse," Indi snorted. He made a _tsk__ tsk_ noise and nodded at the not yet whistling kettle. He was on the ball enough to keep her away from scalding water. It slopped onto the counter, into the saucer and after several moments of intense concentration, into the cup. She set them down, and flopped onto the seat.

"You're right, I'm not," he said cheerily, sipping at the tea as a smug counterpoint. The tea was too sweet and too milky and his host was trying dunk a ginger biscuit with little success and a lot of mess. "They're offering eight hundred thousand for you, but they don't know I know how much you're worth to them. I think I can push fifty million."

"Awesome. Glad I can help your bank account. I hope I'm tax deductable."

"Tsk tsk, Indi! It isn't about the money, it's about keeping score! And you, my dear, are out for a duck."

"Howzat!" She flung her arms in the air. The chair toppled sideways.

"Indeed, back to the pavilion with you! Hoho, glad you could enter into the _sport_ of things!" he set the cup down and stood up. "But now it's time to move along. Why don't you wash up for the good man. He was incredibly reluctant to cooperate but, well, when the _heat_ is on you protect your own. Once you're done we'll go through the backdoor to avoid the main street."

Indi moved back and forth under the pistol's watchful eye, humming absently as the cups clinked and was finally beckoned to leave. The back door was squirreled next to the pantry and as he pushed it open cautiously, it led to a dumpster lined alley. "I'd say ladies first my dear, but that rush of fresh air might give you dangerous ideas."

The shadow crossed the saloon doors. "Here's the cocktail you ordered luv!"

Suddenly as Wyoming stood in the threshold casing the upper windows a bottle shattered above his head raining fire. Unfortunately Duncan forgot that the woman he was saving had spent the three days doing almost nothing except drinking and spilling. If she belched she'd go up like a petrol soaked rag.

She raked the burning blazer over her head and flung it.

The old man shouted. He frantically patting out the glowing embers and her foot flicked in a crescent kick, sending the gun skidding into a corner. Her years of harsh martial arts training came flooding back and of all the complex arcs and combinations- jumping spinning crescent kicks, dropping axe kicks, forward somersault drives- she knew only one that had the stopping power she needed for a complete getaway.

The colour drained from Wyoming's face as he slumped to the floor knockkneed and gawping like a stranded fish.

She pounded the alley, limping, staggering and bouncing off the walls. She gasped. "Strewth mate, you broke m'knee!"

* * *

"Wow, this place is great!" Sarge bawled over the top of the speakers announcing boarding times. He waved a pamphlet at Caboose who tried to follow it's erratic zigzag. "Crocodiles that can reach six metres in length! A boxing kangaroo can kick your kidneys through your nostrils! Redbacks, funnelwebs, blueringed octopussies! Tiger snakes, taipans, adders, box jellyfishies! Conefish, Stonefish, platypussies! Sez here it has a hundred and forty species of venomous snakes!"

"Snake-whah?"

"Haha. Enjoy your holiday wuss!"

"The world's largest species of bat!"

"Get me the fuck out of here!"

"Sez here you can hug a bear, I wonder if I can punch an emoo?"

As it whizzed past his face, Simmons glimpsed the title of the brightly coloured tourist book. _Come to Australia!_ and in smaller print beneath, _You Might Accidently Get Killed!_

Simmons shuddered, but he had to keep it together. They were going to Sydney, one of their biggest cities. Snakes didn't live in cities, did they? Cars were the snake's natural enemy, right? "Sarge, can you keep it down? We're trying to blend 're already keeping an eye on us because of our armour._"_

It wasn't quite true. Soldiers were passing in and out of the galaxy all the time while the human race rebuilt itself, but it was the more diplomatic answer. 'You're causing a scene,' didn't work with five year olds throwing tantrums in supermarkets, it wasn't going to work with a fifty year old sergeant for whom violence wasn't the first resort but the only resort.

The plan had come together quickly, irritatingly without him. Church's reveal had been right, Lopez had been sneaking away to fix the rundown Pelican but rather than punishing the droid for his lying and thieving, Simmons' biggest rival was congratulated for his enterprise and forethought.

Sheila's slipspace drive could take them as far as Reach, deserted except for rebels, pirates and looters from the Outer Colonies. As a wounded, unregistered vessel she couldn't go further but he was more than happy to dump the corroding, corrupting, near rampant machines on Reach. There they could scavenge the wasteland, and work out whatever lovers spat the two had going. It was like dealing with a pair of sixteen year old.

Thus they hitched a ride to Pompeiia, once tourist planet resurrected as an unofficial R&R for the veteran soldiers. It was also a convenient refuelling station on the way to Earth. It buzzed with purpose, organisation and manners you wouldn't find in an elephant in musk.

As Simmon's stood in line for airport customs, he knew despite all efforts they stood out like a ballgown in a nudist colony. civilian clothing, he'd stressed. It was a sad day when Caboose was normal by comparison, and he was wearing different coloured socks, his pants inside out, bobble hat and plumbers crack.

Simmons had to remind Sarge what a civilian was before he could pry loose that his CO wouldn't wear anything that wasn't armour plated, leading to mass mind's eye gouging. He mugged Grif for a shirt that could tent an immigrant family and stocky legs nearly bursting a pair of Simmon's dresspants.

Grif was a glaring clich in Hawaiian shirt, boardies and sunnies. He was violating the laws of the universe because nothing save a blackhole could consume the amount he had in just under an hour. Even as Simmons ran a critical eye over false papers the man was slopping an icecream with one hand, plutopup in the other and still masticating the cornchips from a plate of nachos bigger than his face. His eyes glitters with satisfaction and his cheeks gleamed with grease.

And while he was smugly admiring his own disguise, Simmons was completely unaware he looked like a schoolboy dressed by his mother.

"Fucking hell, do I _have_ to ride around on Grif's ass?" And Church. He should have been the most inconspicuous as a small grey box, but denied everything except a voice he was using it as vindictively as possible. Simmons was slapped twice by affronted women before he foisted Church onto Grif. "Really, did it have to be nachos? I may not have nostrils but I think the casing is starting to melt."

"Shut up or I turn the volume down," Grif said through a happy spray. "Ooh! Jovian Chocolate! Simmons, hold this I'll be back in a second."

"What? Grif, we're almost there," Simmons hissed. Oh god, why was Sarge watching that security guard!"We- Caboose, keep your pants on! No! We need to keep together!"

"Come on man! Duty free! Duty freeeeee!"

Just as Simmons prepared to stamp his foot, his attention was vitally split. Sarge was chesting up to a security guard more monkey than man, growling like a rusty mower just as Caboose had wandered away in the other direction, bending over with his pants down.

"-But Church told me, even though they have Superman's special S it doesn't mean I can fly."

"Oh jeezus!"

"See, we'll have plenty of time! Look after these, I'll be right back."

"Aww, finally Caboose is somebody elses problem and I don't get to watch! What a jip!"

"What do you mean see?"

By the time Grif returned their place in the line stood empty, including his souvenir bags. No, there they were, raided at the feet of the security guard.

"Nice job jackass!" the voice from his hip growled. "They've been hauled off to the airport clink!"

"Look, I got this. Can you just relax? You know, it's a good thing you died when you did otherwise your blood pressure would be through the roof."

"Isn't that pot calling the kettle fat?"

"I'd keep your mouth- your speaker shu- off, because this kettle is getting tired and may carelessly find a place to sit. Now watch this, I'll be smoother than peanut butter." Church went to reply but Grif twirled the frequency dial, cutting the Blue off abruptly until he could retune himself.

Grif swaggered up to the counter to address a woman like a toadstool; short, fat, red with white blotches and likely to make his immediate future miserable. He smiled his most charming smile, showing far more tooth than necessary. Ms Attendant ignored him and nodded to the meek Chinese woman in the UNSC uniform waiting behind the line.

"Purpose of visit," Ms Attendant growled with the resentment reserved for the young and pretty.

"Uh, excuse me. If I can just take a moment of your time?" Grif coughed, trying to drown out Church scanning through static and talkback stations.

For a moment her gaze, which passed through him, the Chinese woman and all dimensions in this universe, swung distastefully to his waist. "No. Go to the end of the line before Al drags you there." Al waved and grinned. There was caramel on his teeth.

"Just two minutes. My friends," there was a moment of personal inspection but he pressed on regardless, "are missing. Can you tell me if they came through?"

"No. Purpose of visit."

"But you see-"

"No. Purpose of visit."

"But they have-"

"No. Alphonse escort this man to the end of the line."

Grif became aware of the noise that was missing too late, and unlucky enough to turn his back just as it crackled to life in passable Grif. "What, and miss that delightful drone, sweet cheeks? I can tell from here that is one hell of an ass. Oh man! I bet you could cup those in both hands! Mmhmm!- The hell? That wasn't me!"

Her impassive expression didn't change. "Hey Al, wouldn't you say Donny's paying a little too much attention to this man's bags?"

Al took several seconds to catch on, darting glances at the beagle weaving in and out of the baggage carousel. "Oh. Yeah. Better frisk him."

"Frisk away honey but you should really treat me to dinner first. What do you say, you, me and the All-You-Can-Eat buffet on third. All-You-Can-Eat isn't an offer babe, it's a challenge." All that was missing was a sleazy wink but Grif gave a strangled yelp, hands splayed in the universal symbol of, _Whoa! _while unconsciously mouthing _Oh I will fucking kill you! _

That didn't fly with Al.

Ms Attendant caught it and emotion flickered for the first time, amusement. "It's a start."

More than an hour later Grif stomped, or would of stomped, up to a coffee booth in the food court.

"Look who finally decided to turn up. Well done dirtbag!" Sarge rumbled, thankfully trapped in a corner. Thwarted, he balled his favourite pamphlet and bounced it off Grif's head. "Where in sam hell were you! Now we gotta wait another four hours for the next slipspace jump!"

"Loverboy had a hot date!" Church crowed.

"You wasted precious hours for some girl!" Simmons blazed, his pale skin still embarrassingly flushed.

Caboose's indecent exposure had been solved worryingly quickly since the victims were a pair of little old ladies who actually fumbled for their reading glasses. As a prevention measure everyone's missing shoelaces were now cutting off the circulation below his armpits.

The security guard had been more difficult, and physical, requiring a fast talking charm which Simmons only possessed in negative amounts. His last resort was bribery, very expensive and happily not his to shoulder.

"He wishes!"

It was then Simmons noticed Grif's toey gait. "Oh. _Ooooh__._"

"I don't want to talk about it."

There are many unwritten rules burned into the human psyche by evolution. Everything from _Don't__ grab the pointy end _to_ Don't stab a rhinoceros in the eye with a spork, _and those that didn't pay attention to these rules learned, very briefly, why they existed.

Chief among these is never fuck with people who have the right and responsibility to fist you up the ass.

* * *

_Yah! I finally posted Chapter 2, even though this was finished when I posted chapter 1. I was hoping for a bunch of crit but shout out to the many people who faved me. Don't know what to say? Well, I'm dying to know your first impressions of Indi, am I portraying the characters IC, is this back and forth timeline confusing, and most of all, am I funny or am I trying too hard?_

_Things to say about this chapter?__ Well, first thing I say before I get stoned to death by beer bottles by fellow Aussies, Indiana is a parody just like Wyoming, but with more than a grain of truth. If you do have trouble with any of the slang, give a yell._

_For those looking 'Come to Australia' is a parody song by the Scared Wierd Little Guys, I Like to Have a Beer with Duncan by Slim Dusty, Tie Me Kangroo Down Sport by Rolf Harris and I reckon that's most of our popculture if you're looking. Give a yell in a review if you're still confused._

_Thanks bunches to EmptyGoldEyes again for the gorgeous poster, Concealed Eminence for boosting me along and AgentTexas to keep me sane with RvB chat when I have no one in RL even close to my nerdishness. _

_Ta mates, catchys!_

**_This chapter has been updated 10/6/2010 since FFnet was a bastard and took away my decorative scene breaks. This AN has been slightly updated but mostly original! Thankyou everyone for your support!_**


End file.
